


cracks between the melody

by tobeconvincedoflove



Series: violin au [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Concerts, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, and all violin knowledge comes from yours truly, because i know that city the best, i don't know how else to tag this man, ice packs, it has, it's also a, it's weird - Freeform, overtiredness, some - Freeform, they live in chicago, violin au, woot woot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has a habit of keeping secrets. Luckily, Courfeyrac and his sibligns know how to figure them out.</p><p>(Or, the violin au no one else wants but me.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	cracks between the melody

It’s a Saturday, so Enjolras wakes up at 6:00 in the morning. It’s only thirty minutes later than during the school week, but Enjolras has shit to do. His lesson is at nine so he needs to take the 7:45 red L line across the city to his violin teacher’s apartment and then walk ten blocks. He likes to do a nice thirty minute warm-up before he leaves, so that gives him roughly an hour to get his siblings up and ready for Combeferre and Courfeyrac. 

In fifteen minutes, Enjolras has showered and started the coffee machine, and his siblings are making their way downstairs. First, as always, is Arabella. 

“I put on my dress by myself!” she exclaims, running up to give her oldest brother a hug. 

“I can see that, Bella.” Enjolras’s voice is fond, because she’s actually done it. Considering she’s six, and Enjolras is the one who has to make sure her uniform is on right during the week, he’s very proud. “Braid my hair, Connor.” 

“Only if you make my lunch.” This is the “deal” Enjolras has with Bella. He sits his youngest sister on the counter, handing her the bread, a plastic knife, and the jar of soy butter (it tastes like peanut butter and Enjolras is allergic to the real thing). If their mother were here, she’d be pissed Bella’s on the granite, but she’s not, so Enjolras lets it happen. Enjolras allows her to meticulously spread the substance as he pulls her wild, curly blond hair into two tight French plaits. 

“All done!” she proclaims just as Enjolras’s other two siblings meander down from their rooms. Hugo, who’s eight, rubs at his eyes sleepily while Alexander (nine) immediately runs to the Pop-Tarts. 

“Morning, Bella,” the two boys greet in unison. Courfeyrac jokes they’re the same person born twice, but Enjolras believes it more to be true. They’re best friends. Planting sloppy kisses on both of their sister’s cheeks, they smile as she squeals delightedly. 

“When are Mom and Dad coming back?” Alexander asks, filling the toaster with Pop-Tarts for him and his younger siblings. Enjolras merely picks Arabella up off of the counter and places her on a chair at the kitchen table. Then he grabs the coffee (he likes it dark and sweet) and peels himself a banana. 

“Wednesday night. They’ll be here thirteen days,” he replies finally, leaning against the counter. “And you better not tell them I’ve been letting you eat Pop-Tarts on the weekend, or they’ll—“ 

“Yes, they’ll get us another nanny. And not let you go to violin for the week,” Hugo finishes, rolling his eyes as he carries his breakfast to the table. 

“I’m serious.” Enjolras’s voice is grave, and he levels both of his little brothers with his best parental look. And, despite being only sixteen, it does the trick. Both of them, with their straight and orderly (oh, how Enjolras envies them) but beautifully blond hair look abashed. 

“Then are you gonna take me to ballet this afternoon?” Arabella asks, and Enjolras smiles at her. 

“Of course. And I’m sure that Courfeyrac will be happy to dance with you this morning.” This prompts many giggles from the little girl, even though it’s true. Really, Enjolras owes everything to his friends for agreeing to do this—to get up early every Saturday to watch _his_ siblings. He knows they don’t mind, but he couldn’t do violin without them. All they ask in return is a mostly-full coffee pot and access to the fridge. 

“I want ‘Ferre to dance with me,” Bella manages to get out, her mouth full of food. At Enjolras’s stern look, she makes quick work of swallowing. 

“He has a lot of tests this week. He’ll probably be studying,” Enjolras warns his siblings. There’s a sigh from the collective Hugo and Alexander, because they adore the student and his overwhelming knowledge about moths and dinosaurs. And everything else. “Be good. Please. They’re doing this as a favor to me.” 

“They shouldn’t have to. Mom and Dad should be here.” Alexander’s moody as he says it, and Enjolras sighs. He’s been dreading the coming of the ‘tweenage’ years, because then this will get so much harder. It’s easy enough to take care of his child siblings, because there’s nothing emotionally-weird going on, generally. Sure, there’s scraped knees and bullies and small crushes, but not angst. Enjolras isn’t even fully out of his own angst phase, for Christ’s sake. 

“They’re working.” That’s all Enjolras can say, because he’s lying if he says he doesn’t resent their parents for their absence. Because he’s happy to go to Alexander’s soccer games and Hugo’s spelling bees and Bella’s ballet recitals, but it’s hard to deal with the fact that Bella’s first word isn’t “Mama” or “Dada”, but “Con”. (Sometimes she’d call him Dad. The first time it happened Enjolras called Combeferre, crying and panicking.) 

“Yes,” Bella agrees solemnly. Enjolras has no idea what’s going on in her head, so he just lets it be. It takes him five more minutes to finish his coffee, and seven for Bella to finish her food. So Enjolras cleans up for the both of them, before leaning over so she can jump on his back for a piggy-back ride. 

“I’m going to go warm up. There’s a list of what you need to do today on the fridge; let me know when C squared gets here.” Sighing, Hugo nods, looking at the list. (All it says is homework, straighten your room, and put all dirty laundry down the chute.) 

“Remember to close your door. You’re loud.” Enjolras nods at Alexander, and feels a twinge of guilt. He always tries to practice at reasonable hours, but it’s hard with homework. And even though nine o’clock is reasonable to him (which is when he ended last night), it’s not to his younger siblings. But Bella’s excited and pulling at his messy curls, so he heads up to his room. 

Bella’s peaceful as Enjolras works his way through his scales and arpeggios, before bringing out his concerto. He doesn’t notice time passes until his two best friends are poking their heads into the door while Enjolras fights his way through Sarasate’s devilish ending to Zigeunerweisen. 

Instantly, she runs up to the two teenagers, giving Courfeyrac’s knees a huge hug. Laughing, Enjolras makes quick work of packing up his stuff. (His rosin is cracked, and one more fall onto the wood floor will be the death of it.) Slinging his blue case over his shoulder, Enjolras smiles at his friends. 

“Thank—“

“Don’t you dare finish that. I’ve been looking forward to dancing and playing dress-up with the munchkin all week,” Courfeyrac says, already dancing with Arabella standing on his feet. 

“Either my room or the study will be quiet, if you need to study. They promised to be good.” Enjolras’s words are directed at Combeferre. 

“Shut it. Just go to your lesson.” So Enjolras lets his little sister give him a hug, and ruffles his brothers’ hair on his way out the door. 

****

*

“The concerto competition for the Chicago Symphony is in a few weeks.” Enjolras’s lesson is over, and he’s packing up his violin case.

“Sir?” Enjolras asks, not sure where this conversation is going. And, to be honest, his brain is fried after eighty minutes (because of course his teacher would hold him twenty minutes late) of relentless pushing. 

“I think you should audition. With Zigeunerweisen.” His teacher’s voice is quiet and firm. “Actually, you are auditioning. I sent in the forms months ago, which is why I’ve been focusing so intently on that piece. I’ll have an accompanist here next week.” 

“I can’t. I’m not ready and it’s the CSO—“ Enjolras begins to argue, but is cut off by one look from his mentor. 

“It’s good experience. You’re doing it.” Enjolras knows better than to argue. “It’s on February 22nd. Your time is 11:10 am.” 

“Okay. Same time next week?” Enjolras asks, and there’s a nod. With a quick thank you, Enjolras is shoving his earphones in, to listen to the masters play his concerto as he walks back to the L station. Internally, his thoughts are racing. There’s no way he’s performance ready, not nearly, on this piece… but his teacher knows what he’s about. Maybe he should talk to Combeferre and Courfeyrac about it? 

No. They’ll get excited and expect something out of this. They’ve heard him solo with an accompanist at school concerts, but this is different. 

Well, Enjolras knows what he’ll be doing the next few weeks. And it’s not sleeping. At least his mom and dad will be home next week, so he can practice without having to worry about the dishes or if his siblings have done their homework. 

Actually, that’s a damn joke. Even when they’re home, they’re rarely _home_ (at least before ten o’clock). 

****

*

“I called Ferre and Courf.” It’s five o’clock exactly three days before the competition, and Enjolras is tired. He’s had so much homework and he’s been working so hard on this goddamn piece, trying to get it all correct and memorized and sounding like it’s supposed to. It’s just the damn ending that’s holding him back.

 _You’ve got more than enough heart for this piece. Just make sure your fingers know it._

That’s what his teacher told him last week, and it’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to Enjolras about his playing. Or about anything, really. But it’s not helping; he doesn’t think he can do this (he _knows_ he can’t). 

“Why, Hugo? It’s a Thursday, and they have homework.” Enjolras is too tired to deal with this right now. His parents are in Moscow for the next month, and he knows he should have been keeping a better eye on his brother, but he can’t help it. He hasn’t told his best friends about the contest, but he did send his performance tuxedo to be dry-cleaned today, which they found odd. 

“You don’t look good. You’re icing your hand,” Alexander adds, and Enjolras can’t believe his siblings are ganging up on him. 

“I’ve been practicing a lot. It’s normal,” Enjolras tries to reassure them, but it’s at that moment Combeferre and Courfeyrac enter the house. Hurriedly, he tries to hide the ice pack under his calculus homework, but Bella just grabs it and puts it back. But, really, it is normal; lots of intense practice puts strain on the tendons, and once he can just back off it’ll all get better again. He just needs to fight through it for a few more days. 

“We’re going to talk to Enjolras. Do you want us to put on a movie for you in the other room?” Courfeyrac asks, and they all immediately scamper to the den. Combeferre’s trapping Enjolras in the kitchen, so he just sighs and waits until Courfeyrac returns. It’s only when the first chords of _Annie_ start playing that the teenager reappears. 

“How much sleep have you been averaging?” Combeferre asks, eyes drifting to the ice pack on Enjolras’s left wrist. His piece is intense in all ways, but it’s the vibrato that kills his wrist during long practices. 

“Enough,” Enjolras mumbles, standing up to start on dinner. He’s not feeling particularly ambitious, so it’ll be mac ‘n cheese and microwaved vegetables tonight. 

“Bullshit,” Courfeyrac spits, shoving Enjolras back into a chair. “Your siblings called us because they’re worried. If they’re picking up on it…” 

“I’m just tired. School and violin have been rough lately.” Enjolras emphasizes his point by scrubbing at his face with his right hand. 

“How much do you have tonight?” Combeferre asks. “And you didn’t answer my question.” 

“I did my practice, and I only have history homework left. But I have to run a few loads of laundry and Bella needs a shower,” Enjolras says. “And I don’t know? Probably three to five?” 

“Well, that settles it. You’re going to bed,” Courfeyrac decides. 

“They haven’t eaten dinner yet and I have to—“ 

“We’ve got it,” Combeferre says, as Enjolras drops his face into his hand. 

“I can’t ask you to do this. You already do too much,” he argues weakly, standing up to put the ice pack back in the freezer. 

“It’s not a problem. My mom hasn’t seen the munchkins in a while, and she wants to come over anyway. So she is,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras just sighs. 

“I can handle this.” Enjolras’s voice is thin, and he’s contemplating just telling them what’s going on, but he doesn’t. “I’ve been doing it for years.” 

“Which is why it’s okay to ask for help sometimes. Your lesson is later this week, yeah?” Combeferre’s voice isn’t suspecting of anything, but Enjolras feels guilty about the lie, anyway. 

“Yep,” he says, now starting to pack up his school stuff. “I’m serious, though. Your mom doesn’t need to—“ 

“Not listening!” Courfeyrac half-yells, before hauling Enjolras up. “And you’re stalling. Go sleep. My mom will wake you up for dinner in a little bt. And then you’re going back to sleeps.” 

“I’ve got to—“

“Enjolras,” Combeferre warns, in that steely tone of his. So Enjolras just trudges past his siblings in the den before collapsing into a boneless heap on his bed. 

He’s out in less than a minute. 

****

*

Enjolras really hates warm-up rooms. No matter if the kids in there with him are seven or seventeen, playing Twinkle Twinkle or the Barber, they always sound better than him. And it’s stressful. Enjolras is alone, trying to keep from sweating too much in his performance tuxedo while he warms up. Bowing patterns, slow scales, and breaking down the piece are all done to remind his fingers of where they’re supposed to be. But all Enjolras can hear are the small mistakes; the bow hops and slightly-off notes and when he’s not matching up exactly with his accompanist.

His siblings know he’s been on edge the past few days; Enjolras has been short with them, and he plans to make it up to them tonight. He’s been practicing almost non-stop after he woke up Thursday morning (the night Courfeyrac all but wrestled him into bed), and it’s about to be ‘make it or break it’ time. 

There are parents giving him odd looks, as they listen to their little Johnny or Maria warm up. Enjolras hears an ungodly amount of Lalo and Bruch and Mendelssohn and thanks whatever is up that there that he’s done with those pieces. 

“Connor Enjolras,” one of the volunteers calls, and Enjolras slowly picks up his judges copies of the piece and follows the young lady down the hallway. Whatever happens, happens, right? 

Yeah. He’ll go with that. If his hand would just stop sweating, that’d be lovely. 

****

*

Enjolras is watching a movie (it’s _Frozen_. Again.) with his siblings, Arabella sitting on his lap, when he checks his phone. The volunteers had said the results would be up at 7:00, and it’s 7:30. Heart beating anxiously, he refreshes the results page.

He must be reading it wrong. He has to be. 

There, in little black letters, is Enjolras’s name under “winners”. There’s only one other name. That’s when it hits him.

Enjolras is going to solo with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. 

“I’ll be back in a minute.” Enjolras’s hands are shaking and he doesn’t know how he manages to walk to the kitchen. For a moment, he contemplates calling his parents, but they’re definitely asleep or working, and won’t want to be disturbed. Sure, they pay for Enjolras’s lessons and his bow re-hairs and his new strings, but they don’t care about this. Enjolras’s Christmas gift is always another year of lessons with his amazing teacher. 

So, he sends his teacher a text, and is immediately bombarded with congratulations. That’s when a representative calls him to talk him through a rehearsal schedule. 

Thank god that in the two weeks leading up to the concert, his parents are home. That’s when he has weekday rehearsals. But the concert, the Saturday night concert, is the day they leave. 

Enjolras honestly doesn’t know why he’s hiding this from his best friends, especially now, but he is. It’s probably not a big deal, and it’s only one concert. The date is April 25th, and that’s too close to AP tests for Combeferre or Courfeyrac to come. So he just won’t tell them so he’s not disappointed. Just like he won’t even bother to tell his parents. They’re not going to reschedule a flight for something as silly as a violin concert. 

That’s when it hits Enjolras that he won a goddamn concerto competition and he’s going to be soloing with an orchestra. Enjolras puts a shaking hand to his mouth, as tears of joy start streaming silently down his face. 

“Connor?” a quiet voice asks, and Enjolras turns around to find his sister standing there, looking at him with those huge, brown eyes of hers. “Why are you crying?” 

“I’m happy, Bella,” Enjolras reassures her. Crouching down, he lets her run into his arms, even though she’s getting too big for that. She plants her palms firmly on Enjolras’s cheeks, trying to wipe away the salt water. 

“Then why are you crying?” It’s a soft question spoken with the innocence of a child, and Enjolras has to push the guilt down as the lie bubbles out of his mouth. 

“It’s just been a good day, and I’m still tired from this week. Come on, Ara-Beara, let’s go watch the movie.” Balancing her on his hip, Enjolras just rejoins the rest of his family in the den. Arabella doesn’t let go of him for the rest of the movie. 

****

*

The minute Enjolras leaves for lesson the next Saturday, violin case on his back and headphones in, Courfeyrac and Combeferre turn to the assembled munchkins.

“Your brother has been hiding something,” Courfeyrac says, pulling out the newspaper from his bag. “And I could really kill him for it.” 

“What’d he do? Is he a spy when he says he’s studying? Does he have a secret passageway?” Hugo asks, which only results in setting off Alexander in a fit of cackles. 

“Now, you have to promise to keep this a secret. We don’t want Enjolras to know that we know.” Combeferre’s voice is slow and level, and three eager faces nod at him. They want the dirt on their brother. Arabella, whose hair is in a beautiful fishtail today, squirms a little in her seat. 

“Is this why he was crying last week?” 

“Holy crap, he cried?” Courfeyrac asks, looking gleefully to Combeferre. “That idiot should have told us.” 

“Focus, C,” Combeferre reminds his friend, and it only takes a few seconds for the curly-haired boy to sober himself. Looking to the little ones, Combeferre continues. “You know how your brother has been working really hard at violin lately? Well, it’s because he was in a competition last weekend. And he won.” 

There are three gasps. Then Arabella squeals. 

“What does that mean, though? Why didn’t he tell anyone? He always talks to me about how my stuff is going,” Alexander says, brow crinkling. 

“He’s going to be soloing with the Chicago Symphony in a month or so,” Courfeyrac says, the excitement practically shooting out of his words. “And we don’t know why he didn’t tell anyone.” 

“That’s why we’re keeping this a secret,” Combeferre adds. “We’re going to surprise him. We’ve already got tickets for the concert. Front row.” 

“But what if he didn’t tell us because he doesn’t want us there?” Hugo’s lip is trembling as he asks the question. “He doesn’t tell Mom and Dad about anything anymore, and when I asked him he said he doesn’t want them there.” 

“No, that’s not it at all,” Courfeyrac answers, his voice soothing. “But we will talk with him about that last bit. “We think he’s nervous that he’ll mess up, or that we won’t _want_ to come. But if there’s anyone he’ll want there, it’s you three.” 

“So what do we do?” Alexander crosses his arms, trying to level Combeferre’s stare. He’s largely unsuccessful. 

“Don’t clue him in that we know. The rest will take care of itself.” Courfeyrac’s mischievous wink sets Arabella off into a fit of giggles.

“We should get him flowers,” she says.

“You and I will pick each and every one out ourselves,” Courfeyrac promises. 

“Now go do your homework. If you finish before lunch we’ll play Just Dance.” 

****

*

“Ten more minutes.” It’s been a long day. Enjolras had his first rehearsal with the conductor of the CSO (and his violin teacher), a full lesson, and he’s trying not to panic. The runs just aren’t flowing like they should, and Enjolras is fighting his hand. They need to feel natural, and they just don’t today. Enjolras has broken them apart by shifts and bowing patterns and going back and retuning everything, but it’s not helping. And he _knows_ that days like these happen, but it’s too close to the concert for it not to make him concerned. And if his entire left forearm is hurting like hell, no one will be the wiser.

“Nope. Arabella and I have a dance routine to show you, and she’s not going to wait,” Courfeyrac says, entering Enjolras’s room. There’s paper all over the place, and Enjolras is standing, holding up his instrument using just his neck strength. (His right hand is too busy massaging the tendons in his left to help.) 

“I guess that explains the get-up.” Enjolras’s voice is thin, but he cracks a small smile at Courfeyrac’s “ballet bun”, which more resembles a very small unicorn horn than anything, and his outfit is complete with a tutu. 

“Come on then,” Courfeyrac urges, and Enjolras reluctantly places his violin back in the case. Then he’s dragged down the stairs, handed an icepack by Combeferre, and made to sit on the couch in the den. Hugo and Alexander are on either side of him, looking excited. Enjolras notices his laptop is nowhere to be seen, but neither is the table. 

“May I have your attention please?” Courfeyrac asks dramatically, clearing his throat. “The prima ballerina, with the assistance of the devilishly handsome Jack Courfeyrac, wishes to present what she has learned at ballet this year.” With a dramatic bow towards Arabella, who carefully walks out onto stage, Courfeyrac presses play on the music. Enjolras immediately recognizes it as a Swan Lake variation, but holds his tongue. 

Still dressed in her bun, which has remarkably stayed intact, pink leotard, and skirt, Arabella dances. It’s mostly basic steps, but she does some very impressive spins. And, Enjolras has to hold in his laughter at Courfeyrac following along. Until he gracefully lifts Arabella at the end, letting her hold her form and pretend it’s a real partner dance. 

At the end, Enjolras claps loudly and proclaims how proud he is of Bella, and she runs in for a hug. Courfeyrac dramatically takes his bows, only stumbling a little. 

“I can’t wait to see your recital,” he says, and Hugo and Alexander join in. Sure, it’s the week before the concert, but he’s already talked to the conductor, who agrees that Enjolras can have the earlier rehearsal time. 

****

*

That’s how Enjolras ends up running into the auditorium, violin case still strung over his back, five minutes before the recital is supposed to start. He’d already done Bella’s hair and everything before he’d left, and dropped her off for her call time.

“Over here!” Hugo calls, standing up from where he’s squashed between Courfeyrac and Alexander, Combeferre and the parents just next to them. Somehow, Enjolras’s parents have made it. 

“Sorry I’m cutting it close; I had to debate between the pink tulips and the yellow ones.” Enjolras says this all with his normal seriousness, and Hugo nods in agreement. He’s still wearing the pin from the spelling contest he won earlier in the week. His parents tried to get him to take it off, but Enjolras encouraged him to wear it for as long as he wanted (he’d worked so hard spelling all of them). 

“You should have been here sooner,” his mother scolds, and Enjolras just looks down. He still hasn’t told anyone about the concert, and when his mother continues lecturing about his selfishness he remembers why. 

Sitting next to Courfeyrac, who is watching with anticipation as his little protégé takes the stage, Enjolras realizes how much better he likes it when his parents aren’t there. Hugo is less shy, Arabella giggles more, and Alexander is less moody. Because Courfeyrac is staring with intense focus as he tries to help Bella remember the steps, and Enjolras is just grinning. He’s so proud of all of his siblings, and Bella looks so happy up there, and so very graceful. 

They’re the first ones standing at the end, when the entire ballet school is on the stage for bows, yelling Bella’s name. Enjolras has Hugo on his shoulders, and when Bella emerges from behind stage, out of her white swan costume and into a frock, Enjolras hides the flowers behind his back. Courfeyrac is spinning her around, proclaiming how well she’d done, and Enjolras just smiles. 

“Hey, Bella, a little fairy told me that you love yellow tulips,” he whispers, handing the girl the bouquet. The look of surprise on her face is marvelous, and in an instant she’s hugging her older brother as tight as she can. 

When they’re walking to the cars, Bella swinging between Enjolras and Courfeyrac, she tugs on her friend’s sleeve. 

“We’re gonna surprise Connor with the best flowers ever,” she whispers. 

****

*

“I’ll be back late tonight. There’s this recital thing at my violin teacher’s university,” Enjolras explains again, as he’s grabbing his tux and walking out the door. His unruly hair is styled to be back from his face for once, and he’s nervous. Really nervous.

“Yep,” Courfeyrac says. “Don’t worry. We’re just going to be watching Disney movies. And studying for AP exams.” 

“Thank you so much,” Enjolras blurts out, and then he’s running out the door. The entire week his nerves have been crazy, and they’ve had to hide both the blonde’s violin and laptop and multiple occasions. 

But then he’s gone, and Arabella starts giggling, her hair already coming out of the plait Enjolras had wrangled it into that morning. 

“Let’s go buy flowers, shall we?” Courfeyrac says, before tickling the little girl. “And then we’ve got to get ready. We’re going to the symphony!” 

****

*

_Make it sound like you’re ripping your own heart out of your chest._

As Enjolras stands in the private dressing room, those words from his violin teacher play over and over in his head. Today, the man has told Enjolras how proud he is of him, and it’s almost destroyed Enjolras. His own father hasn’t ever told him that. 

Slowly working his way through warm-ups, Enjolras feels the anxiety building. When the other soloist, an amazing cellist wearing a gorgeous red ball gown, enters to talk, he tries not to let it show. But it’s hard. 

And she gets it. She’s feeling it too, so they decide to just be nervous together.

****

*

“Come on!” Combeferre’s father calls up the stairs, where the children are finishing getting ready. The flowers, an enormous bouquet filled with everything possible, is sitting on the counter, and Courfeyrac is waiting in his button-down and bow-tie. It’s Combeferre’s turn to do Bella’s hair, and for that Courfeyrac is grateful.

Hugo and Alexander come bounding down, their hair combed and in their own nice clothing. It takes Bella a little longer; her curls are free, held back by a thick hairband, and she’s wearing a cute blue dress. Combeferre follows shortly after (no, Courfeyrac is _not_ thinking about how hot his friend looks). 

****

*

Combeferre doesn’t realize how passionate of a song Zigeunerweisen is until Enjolras is performing it in front of a packed concert hall. He recognizes the stiff stance Enjolras has walking out at the beginning, never once looking at the audience. Enjolras’s eyes are on the conductor, a small smile breaking out, but then they’re on his violin as he readies himself to play.

The passion and love exudes through the melodies, and Enjolras plays with such intensity and ferocity that it’s impossible not to look at him. He stands with the right elegance of a soloist, and his notes cut clear, his vibrato either warming the audience’s heart or tearing it out depending on how he does it. It’s a magical experience, and Combeferre can see the ease that has come from the months (years) of hard work. He’s heard bits and pieces of this song for months, but it’s a completely different experience tonight. Tonight everything makes sense. 

When the ending hits, an exciting end that has both Enjolras and the audience hanging on for dear life, something changes. A huge smile lights up the sixteen-year-old’s face, and he turns to the audience. They’re all going crazy, but in the front row (even though the front row is the worst place to sit, Enjolras knows, acoustic-wise) are his family. His smile goes even wider, and a few tears slip from his eyes. Flowers are brought on stage, but it takes a good five minutes for the audience to calm down and sit back down for the rest of the concert to continue. 

Courfeyrac takes a picture of the moment, and it’s the best picture he’s ever seen. 

****

*

When Enjolras emerges from backstage, still in his tuxedo, it takes him a while to fight through the crowd (everyone is congratulating him) to make it to his family. That’s when he’s ambushed in a hug that’s the collective effort of Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“You idiot,” Combeferre says fondly.

“You’re actually here,” Enjolras whispers. 

“Of course we are.” It’s Hugo who says this, and Enjolras’s two best friends step aside to let his siblings in. Shyly, Bella hands him a bouquet. 

“You got this for me?” he asks in his soft voice that’s almost exclusively used with his sister. When Bella nods, he scoops her up into a tight hug.

“Thank you!” he proclaims over and over, making her smile. He makes her take him through her flower choices, which she explains proudly. Then it’s Hugo and Alexander’s turn, who mostly look at him like he’s a superhero. 

“Come on, we’re celebrating,” Combeferre declares, as Enjolras blushes. People are still coming up to him to offer congratulations, and it’s so adorable how uncomfortable Enjolras is. 

“What?” he asks. He still can’t get over the shock that they actually _came_ , and that they liked it. Then again, Enjolras still isn’t sure his friends are there. It’s all shocking and it’s a little bit too much. 

“We’re proud of you, you fool,” Alexander adds, running a hand through his hair. 

“I don’t know. I kind of preferred Ara-Beara’s ballet recital,” Courfeyrac says sheepishly, and the little ballerina in question gasps. 

“No. I like Connor’s,” she states firmly, reaching up for her brother’s arms. Enjolras just shifts his violin case a little on his back, and picks up his little sister. 

“Why thank you,” he says, smile as wide as anyone’s ever seen it. When Arabella boops his nose in response, it’s one of the cutest things Combeferre has seen. “Thank you.” This time it’s directed at everyone standing with him. It’s serious and honest and it has Bella tugging at his curls. 

“Let’s go, maestro.”

**Author's Note:**

> The violin piece constantly mentioned is Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen. You should listen to it. All of the violin angst came from my prepping for a concert where I was playing Wieniawski's Concerto 2 (1st movement). You should listen to that too. The violin information comes from personal experience, but it isn't the same for everyone. My wrists only hurt really badly if I'm doing a lot more violin than normal. Thanks for reading, and feel free to drop a review with your thoughts!


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